


runnin' from nothin' but my only bloodline

by werewolfsquad



Series: last year's antlers [6]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Attack, Animal Death, Arthur meanwhile is there for moral support and to make snarky comments, Canon-Typical Violence, Father-Son Relationship, Harm to Animals, Hunting trip, John is trying very hard to be a good father and ends up doing mostly okay, One Shot, both of those two in context of hunting/animal attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22260412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolfsquad/pseuds/werewolfsquad
Summary: At this point, John figured he was doomed to regret every single decision he ever made. Sure, maybe he could call this Arthur’s fault, seeing as he’d agreed to come along, but everything to come after was squarely John’s doing. And now John was stuck two day’s ride out from the ranch with a moody goddamn eleven year old who would rather be reading than on a hunting trip with his fathers, a goddamn husband who thought the whole endeavor the most entertaining thing he’d witnessed this month, and no goddamn deer to speak of.Oh, and the dog. Couldn’t forget the goddamn dog.
Relationships: Jack Marston & John Marston, John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: last year's antlers [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1302446
Comments: 23
Kudos: 92





	runnin' from nothin' but my only bloodline

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is part of a longer, canon-divergent AU series. Reading the long fic in the series may be helpful for context/setting, but shouldn't be absolutely necessary.

It had started well enough. They’d been planning hunting trips for a while now, stocking up before winter. Though the merino sheep they kept could yield some meat, mostly they were good for wool, and so it seemed near unthinkable to slaughter one. It was cheaper even than trading resources with the Harrison cattle farm down the way to go and hunt themselves, build up a store for coldest months.

John, in a decision he was now regretting, had suggested bringing Jack along, some thought about teaching the boy to hunt. And, of course, that meant Arthur coming along too, seeing as, as Jack’s sometimes-father and John’s always-husband, it made sense for him to be included in this particular piece of the boy’s education.

It wasn’t a hard fight with Abigail, for once. Despite her insistence still that Jack be a lawyer, find a way into the civilized world that was fast approaching, even she was sick of the sourness that seemed to plague the boy these days. That, on top of the fact that Bess had recently learned how to run and was particularly fond of the word “no”, and Abigail was happy to not have to worry about both the toddler and Jack for a few days. With Charles at the ranch for the month and the few hired hands still set to stay for a few more weeks, they also weren’t leaving her with an overwhelming workload either, no matter if Uncle decided to pull his weight or not. It helped that Arthur agreed to come along, because Abigail trusted Arthur, both to keep Jack safe and to keep John out of trouble.

The problems instead first started when John attempted to explain the trip to Jack. John could’ve played it better than tacking it on after telling Jack to stop reading and get on with his chores, of course, but he never claimed to have any sort of tact, and that had been the third time this week John had tracked down Jack to find him avoiding work with his nose in a book. And, sure, maybe forcing Jack along wasn’t the best way to earn his good mood, but, John thought, if they waited until Jack wanted to go, the boy would never learn how to hunt.

So maybe John shouldn’t have been surprised that Jack hung behind him and Arthur as they rode, stewing in resentment, only the grace of Baylock being near dynamite proof saving his son from being thrown. And maybe John shouldn’t have been surprised that Jack refused to say more than one word to him no matter what John said to him, not even when they were taking breaks to let the horses rest, and not even though Jack seemed happy enough to engage with Arthur.

And maybe John shouldn’t have acted with quite as much exasperation when he arrived back to their camp after collecting kindling for the fire to find Jack had pitched his own tent, separated from the one John had brought, had intended for all three of them, across the fire pit from the tent John had put up.

And before John had even finished saying, “Jack, it’s gonna be warmer—” Jack had already disappeared within the tent, saddlebags in hand. Intending not to emerge for the rest of the night, no doubt.

Next to John, Arthur was sniggering, and it was only a half beat before John was whirling on him, saying, “Did you give him the goddamn tent?” He knew, of course, that that was the case, because that was the sort Arthur was, the most apt of the three of them to spoil Jack, but he still needed to hear it from Arthur’s goddamn mouth.

But Arthur rolled his shoulders back at John. “Boy just wants to be independent. Don’t see why that’s a big deal.”

“I can’t believe you’re _encouragin_ ’ this bullshit. The boy wants to pout, is what he wants.”

Arthur snorted at that, and John had had enough even before he was saying, “Ain’t the only one from where I’m standin’.”

In lieu of a spoken answer that Jack might overhear, John just made a rude hand gesture before turning on his heel, heading off to feed the horses.

The thing about fighting with Arthur these days, though, was that they fought quick and made up quicker. By the time John’d bedded down that night, he was happy to wrap himself up in Arthur, use Arthur’s impossibly endless warmth to keep the chill of the night out. That was the sort of life they had, where nothing really mattered more than the family they’d made for themselves.

* * *

It took them longer to wake up in the morning now. It wasn’t like they were old—not by John’s eyes, at least, but ever since Arthur had hit forty and started getting grey around his temples, he seemed inclined to disagree—but with a life that had pushed their bodies hard, even at thirty three, John had to work some soreness out of his shoulders and hips after a night on the ground. The cold didn’t help on that count, not even with Arthur there to keep him warm.

So John was drowsy that morning, crawling out of a bedroll that Arthur must’ve just vacated, judging by lingering heat where his body had lain. Still, emerging from the tent to their food strewn across the campsite was a hell of a wakeup call.

John found Arthur standing over it, always one to wake up first, nudging at various ruined provisions with the toe of his boot. Turned to look at John as he joined him, said, “Reckon there’s bears in the area.”

“What tipped you off there?” John asked, barely able to muster the proper sarcasm in his voice this early in the morning.

Arthur ignored the comment, just stooped to paw through a pile of debris. “Anythin’ salvageable?”

“We been too long out of it,” John said, grabbing a can and turning it over in his hand. Had to hang food up in trees or else lock it up if they weren’t setting a watch, John _knew_ that, and still. Too preoccupied by the damn tent thing to think of it the night before. Too long out of a life spent camping, and too used to either setting a watch or having a camp so big that a bear wouldn’t dare approach it even before they were out of the life.

Least the bear hadn’t gotten everything. Nothing canned, and that was a relief. Sure, a bear’s teeth could crush through cans no problem, but only if they knew there was something inside. Their luck this particular bear hadn’t, and so had only gone for the dried meat, cheese and bread. Horses had been spooked too, but came with little fuss when whistled for.

Still. Goddamn bears. It was a bad start to the day, and one that proved to indicative of the tenor of the rest of the day, because who was John to expect that anything go his way?

* * *

Hosea was the one who had taught John how to hunt. Of course he had—though Dutch had taught Arthur gunslinging, and so the both of them passed that skill on to John, Dutch didn’t have the patience for hunting proper, and so neither had Arthur at that time. John hadn’t either, even after being taught, but at least he had others to take over hunting duty while he stuck to his strengths.

But Hosea had been raised in the mountains, and without hunting, there would’ve been nothing on the table. So, sure, maybe John hadn’t used the hunting he’d been taught as often as he should’ve when he was younger, but he’d still been taught damn well. Knew how to track, how to wait, how to hold a deer in the sights of his rifle.

How to kill cleanly and efficiently, though maybe he’d learnt that a little too well.

Didn’t mean that he was at all qualified to pass on the lessons. They’d done some prep, he and Arthur, teaching Jack to shoot a rifle, setting cans up on a handful of crates near the edge of the ranch, showing him how to sight, pull a trigger in one fluid motion.

The problem was, the boy didn’t have any gun sense at all. He was apt to flinch when the noise of a rifle sounded by his ear, and the resulting kickback had bowled him over more than once. For all his fathers had handled guns just as easy as breathing, the rifle scared Jack, the power of it like a beast Jack would rather hide from. And John wasn’t sure how to fix that, not when a pistol had seemed so long like an extension of his own body.

In any other situation involving guns, John might’ve seen it as a good thing, one more way Jack was growing into a better person than John was. And, sure, he still wasn’t particularly interested in teaching Jack pistols until he was a handful of years older. The problem was, rifles weren’t just for killing and robbing men. They lived a life close to the bone out in Absaroka, and ate a diet supplemented by hunted things out of necessity, not want.

But John wasn’t qualified to explain to Jack how the gun wouldn’t come alive and bite the boy. And John was even less qualified for what came next.

They’d pulled up the horses in a clearing in the dense woodland they’d been riding through for a solid half hour, somewhere where the deer wouldn’t be spooked by passing riders. Left them to graze, knowing each knew to stay put until they were fetched or whistled for. That was the benefit of Arthur-trained horses, after all. Reliability above all else. And from there, they tracked.

That was, at least, something that came easy to Jack. Tracking was a skill more than anything else, learning how to observe, find the signs of a deer’s passing, follow them quietly. And Jack was good at observing, something that could be seen as much in how many times John had caught him eavesdropping. The boy knew how to hold his tongue, slip into places where he wasn’t seen. Probably got it from his former-thief mother, all things told.

It likely helped, of course, that John wasn’t the one teaching Jack. It was Arthur crouching with the boy over a set of prints, talking in whispers about the deer’s gait, the way it stepped each back foot in the print of the front, delicate and precise. Showed him where to look for uncovered acorns, grazed grass, signs of passing. And it was John hanging back, letting Jack learn from a better teacher than he could ever be.

The trouble came when they happened upon a crest of a hill, peered over the other side to find a trio of deer, grazing peacefully on the grass, and when, with all of them lying on their bellies, John handed his son a rifle.

Jack was pale, and John should’ve seen that for what it was, a boy who had never shed blood in his life. A boy who had never had to take down a deer, had never had to see the life of something end on the other end of his gun. He should’ve leaned over, settled Jack’s aim, doubled his finger over the trigger, took some of the kickback. Took some of the ownership.

Instead, John said, “For the head or neck, boy. Won’t suffer that way.”

And Jack paused, finger on the trigger, asked, quiet, “Do I have to, Pa?”

“Yes, Jack,” John muttered back, eyes flicking to the deer. Two does, one stag, hefty animals. Wind was in their favor, but no telling how long it would be before that changed.

But Jack still didn’t shoot. “But they aren’t even doin’ nothin’, Pa,”

“Jack, that ain’t—”

“What right do we got to kill ‘em?”

“’cause we need to eat, kid,” John snapped back, and then, seeing the stag pick up his head, “You’re gonna goddamn _miss them_ , boy.”

“Pa, I don’t want—”

“Jack, _goddamn shoot_.”

A shot went off, and the rifle kicked back against Jack’s shoulder. On the other side of John, Arthur swore, and John saw why in an instant, saw the doe’s leg buckle under it. Felt more than anything Jack flinch next to him at the way the deer stumbled, nearly collapse down to her knees before attempting a limping gait away, broken leg hanging uselessly.

It was Arthur, of course, who hefted his rifle, took one clean shot and brought the doe down, ending her suffering instantly. And when Arthur pulled himself up, heading towards the carcass, Jack grasped at John’s sleeve, muttered in a fragile sort of voice, “Please don’t make me do it no more, Pa, please.”

And John couldn’t argue, not seeing the deer bleeding out on the forest floor, not seeing Jack’s pale face, eyes brimming with tears.

“Alright, we’re done for the day.”

* * *

They camped not far away, and Jack once again retreated straight into the tent, John left staring at canvas that might as well be a wall. And he was locked there, torn between facing Jack and running, when Arthur took a seat at the fire next to him, said, “Well, that went well.”

“Shut up, Arthur.” It was an automatic reaction more than anything else.

Arthur chuckled a little, stoked the fire a bit with a stick. Took a breath before saying, “Lemme ask you somethin’, John. Why’s it so important to you that Jack knows how to hunt?”

John sighed, took a seat next to him. Should’ve known this talk was coming, seeing how badly that whole ordeal had went. “You know why, Arthur. You think anyone’s gonna survive in this world without knowin’ how to shoot a deer? We both been on the streets long enough t’know that.”

Arthur didn’t look up at him, just stirred the coals around before throwing another log on the fire. “Sure, I know that. But does Jack?”

Right. Of course. As much as John wanted to roll his eyes, sigh and turn away, all those dismissive gestures that had become nearly commonplace, Arthur had a goddamn point, and John knew it.

That didn’t make it any easier to confront, though. John sighed again, stretched out his legs. Asked, quietly, “How d’you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Talk to him.”

And John must’ve looked a sight miserable, because the look Arthur gave him was nearly sympathetic, and the pat he gave John’s shoulder even more so.

“Listen, John. Like it or not, I got a little more experience with disagreeable kids than you got.”

“What’s that supposed t’mean?”

Arthur just chuckled, leaned back. Didn’t answer, just said, “Just give it a try, right? And if it don’t go, it don’t go. You’re still too used t’things goin’ your way, even with all ‘em years.”

“I got no idea what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, Arthur.”

Arthur just rolled his shoulders, stood and stretched. “Gonna go string up the meat,” he murmured, and left John sitting there, no further explanation.

It took John a full minute to get to his feet himself, and longer for him to bring himself to the mouth of Jack’s tent, canvas draped over the entrance like a wall. Tried his hardest to ignore the way his heart was pounding in his chest like a hammer.

Cleared his throat, started, “Jack, can I—” That wasn’t right. Wasn’t like the boy had any right to reject him, not really. Christ, one would think that after this long a father, any sort of interaction with his son wouldn’t terrify him like it did. Tried again, “I’m comin’ in, alright?”

There was no answer, but John knelt anyway, pushed the canvas aside. Blinked once or twice as he crawled in, eyes still adjusting, to find Jack sitting with his legs tucked up under him, eyes pointedly focused on the book in his lap, illuminated by the soft light of a lantern, rather than on John.

“Jack?” John asked, settling into a cross-legged position next to him.

Jack’s eyes drifted up to him, then back down to the book. “Yeah, Pa?”

“You oughta answer me when I call for you.”

“I know,” Jack replied, and it was a quiet sound.

A pause, too long to be natural. John trying to find the right words. “Everythin’ alright? You ain’t even ate since lunch.”

“Not hungry,” came the brief answer.

John bit his lip, huffed a breath. “But—but you need t’eat, Jack. Gonna do this all again tomorrow.”

And _that_ got a reaction, finally, though it wasn’t the right one. Jack stiffening, fingers curling hard over the book. “We really gonna hunt again?”

“You gotta learn sometime, Jack.”

All that earned him was a snort under Jack’s breath, and John couldn’t help the anger that bubbled up in his chest over it, because what right did _his_ son have to be so goddamn dismissive? It wasn’t right, of course, the sort of rage that was too easy to grasp, to wield against those folks he loved. Had to take a deep breath, let his anger settle out through his limbs and leech into the air before he spoke again.

Finally, “Listen to me, son. Who’s gonna take care of your momma if I ain’t around?”

The answer was short and immediate. “Uncle Arthur.”

“That ain’t…” It was true, of course. As much as Arthur and Abigail weren’t interested in romancing each other, they still considered themselves family, and Arthur would do anything to keep her and the kids safe and secure, even to the point of sacrificing himself. But, “Ain’t the point I’m tryin’ to make here. What if somethin’ happens to me, to Uncle Arthur, to—hell, to Uncle. What’s gonna happen to your mother? She’s a lot of things, but she ain’t never been a hunter, and Bess ain’t gonna learn for years more. Say you end up alone, no me, no Arthur, no Uncle, no Uncle Charles or Uncle Javier, even. What you’ll do then?”

Jack just huffed a sigh back at him. “But that ain’t ever gonna happen, Pa.”

“Say it does, alright? We ain’t—” They weren’t ever completely safe from the law, no matter how long they’d hidden away in Absaroka, no matter how far from the gang life they’d strayed. “Just, just pretend for a second. All of us are gone, what’re you gonna do to keep the farm afloat? How you gonna feed your mother and Bess, huh, if you can’t hunt?”

Jack didn’t look at him, just huffed, “Then I’ll buy food. Like normal folks.”

Another flare of anger. “With what _money_ , Jack?”

“Ma’s the one sayin’ I should be a lawyer.”

“And being a lawyer takes time, boy, and it takes money, and we ain’t got so much with the goddamn sheep. You wanna survive in a world like that long enough to get yourself a law degree, you gotta do the goddamn work and learn how to _hunt_.”

It was too harsh, John knew, especially watching Jack bite his lip, turn further away. And he was about to either apologize or make it worse, hadn’t quite made up his mind on how deep a hole he wanted to dig, when Jack dipped his head, muttered, “I don’t like killin’ ‘em, Pa. I—I hurt it, today.”

John wanted to wince, but couldn’t let himself. Because, of course, that wasn’t how he’d wanted Jack’s first experience hunting to go, to see a doe suffering from an act of his own hand. But, then again, “That’s—Jack, that’s just how things go, sometimes. It’s part of learning. Sometimes you hurt things, and you don’t mean it, but—but it’s just part of bein’, sometimes.” Jack opened his mouth to speak, but John continued, “But, but you gotta—gotta understand that sometimes, sometimes we need to do things just to survive. Even if we don’t like it. ‘cause if we don’t, then people we care about get hurt. We want the goddamn best for you, boy, but you gotta put that work in to learn. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack said, but it was subdued, uncomfortable, and John had no idea how to fix that.

Still, “We’ll try again tomorrow, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack said again, and turned away.

“Didn’t work,” John muttered later after he crawled his way into his and Arthur’s tent, into the overlarge bedroll that they shared on cooler nights like these.

“You’ll get there,” Arthur said back, words half a sigh, and he lifted an arm, let John squirm his way into a half embrace.

John tucked his head up under Arthur’s chin, and it was a moment before he muttered, “Why’re you so goddamn good at this, and I ain’t?”

“I ain’t got so much ridin’ on this, and I ain’t so afraid of makin’ mistakes neither.” And Arthur shifted his head a little, drew his arm up tighter around John, said, “Go to sleep, John. We’ll figure it out.”

“ _I’ll_ figure it out, you mean.”

“Y’got me for a reason, John.”

“Sure,” John said. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Arthur, just—just, John knew nothing, and the world seemed content to remind him of that at all turns. Still, “G’night, Arthur.”

Arthur sighed, his own way of wishing John the same, and the breath ruffled John’s hair. It was a long time before John fell asleep, his mind too full. But, at least, he was warm and wrapped up in Arthur.

* * *

John dreamt something half a memory.

It wasn’t a full memory, John knew, because he’d avoided Arthur’s tent like something diseased in those first few days after Arthur’d dragged himself back from his time in Colm’s violent care. He knew now why he’d done so, why Arthur’s tent had seemed so untouchable a place. It had been the way death surrounded Arthur like a cloak, like any little disturbance would cause it to consume him entirely.

John had stayed away because if he hadn’t seen it in person, maybe it wasn’t real. He’d spent so much of his life thinking of Arthur as someone larger than life, a man who couldn’t possibly be cut down by something as simple as a bullet in the shoulder. He’d thought that, even if Arthur was, none of the rest of the gang would ever let it get so far, that Dutch loved them as much as he claimed to, that the world wasn’t so cruel as to take Arthur away over some simple mistake. So he hadn’t gone in, hadn’t let himself near the thing, for fear that seeing it would make it tangible, that it would no longer be something John could pretend wasn’t happening. By the time he brought himself to show his face, Arthur had been awake, weak but no longer dying.

But here he was in Arthur’s tent, and, even in the dream, the smell of sickness and rot made his stomach turn. And, just at the mouth of the tent, Cain, the Catahoula Jack had loved and lost, was barking.

John was trying to get him to quiet. In the endless length of times dreams created, he’d been trying to get Cain to quiet for too long, and felt he’d be doing so a great deal longer. He _needed_ Cain to quiet, because if he kept it up John was sure Arthur would wake, and if Arthur woke then that might be the last time John would ever see him alive, and he wouldn’t even be lucid enough to understand what John meant when John told him he loved him.

It didn’t matter that John hadn’t known then. John knew now, knew he loved Arthur desperately, as much as a man could love another person, and he couldn’t bear the thought of Arthur never knowing that as a fact, not when John had the perspective of the past six years to tell him so.

And Cain was barking, and behind him Arthur was stirring, incoherent and fever-drenched, and John’s head was splitting goddamn open, and, and, _and_ —

And John jerked awake with a start.

He thought the barking would stop with the dream gone.

It did not.

There were few things more disorienting to John than a dog when he wasn’t expecting a dog. Sure, it was probably the same for most folks, but for John, familiar both with scent hounds and wolves, unknown canines were something to be suspicious of, not celebrated. It took a minute for him to blink the sleep out of his eyes as the barking turned to quieter whining, to turn and shove at Arthur’s shoulder, still fast asleep next to him, say, “Arthur, what’s—?”

But Arthur only gave a grumble next to him, rolled over, and then John heard something under the whining—a shushing noise that sounded suspiciously like his son.

Goddamnit.

He was pushing his way out of the tent in an instant, damn the fact that he was still dressed in nothing but his union suit, growling out a sleep hoarse, “Jack?”

And, near as quick, he was knocked back on his ass as a yellow blur burst from Jack’s tent, and immediately set about licking and sniffing and nibbling at every single inch of his person. And John knew immediately, almost by smell alone, that this wasn’t going to end well.

God _damnit_.

He only managed to push the beast off of him after his face had been thoroughly drenched in slobber, and Jack had pushed his head out of his tent, looking more than a touch sheepish.

The dog—if it could even be called a dog, all mud and skin and bones—wasn’t deterred by Jack’s appearance, and went again for John’s face. John, having learned better, stood, let the dog sniff around his bare feet rather than anywhere above his shoulders. Folded his arms, looked over at his son. Asked, quiet, “Jack, what’s this?”

“Sorry—sorry, Pa, he’s just, he was hungry, sniffin’ around and—and—no, boy, off!”

Arthur had emerged from the tent behind John, rubbing a palm sleepily into one eye, and the dog seemed just as inclined to give Arthur the same treatment he had when John had woken. Arthur, of course, took it in stride, looked almost too collected at the strange dog sniffing at his union suit. In fact knelt down in line with the dog, let the dog sniff and lick at his face with no more than a muttered, “Hey there, boy. Where’d you come from?”

The dog was a Labrador, or, at least, looked like one. John couldn’t claim to be any sort of expert on dog breeds, but Labradors were common enough that John knew the look of them. Blocky head, thick body, large paws and tail. Coat clearly yellow, even under the streaks of mud that near covered it. Bonier than a dog ought to be, and John could see well enough that Arthur noticed that too, judging by the way his hand ran critically over the lab’s ribs.

Still, Arthur’s voice was a careful sort of critical when he said, not looking up at them, “Ain’t seen a dog before I went to sleep.”

“No, me neither,” John said back, before turning his eyes back to his son. “Jack?”

Jack bit his tongue, looked away from John a moment before beginning, “I—I was hungry, an’ couldn’t sleep, an’, an’ I went out to the horses an’ he was eatin’ at their feed.”

“And he’s still here because…?”

“I gave him some food.”

“You _fed_ it?”

That got Jack to jerk his head up, set his chin hard. Looked a bit like Abigail when he said, “He was _starvin’_ , Pa. I couldn’t just leave him in the cold.”

“And probably ate our goddamn food the first night, too.” Would make sense, it being the dog rather than a bear.

But the frustration was clear in Jack’s face as he snapped, “He _didn’t_. He’s friendly, Pa, look. He wouldn’t’a done somethin’ like that. I know it.”

“Sure,” John said, “’cause you know him so well. It’s a stray, Jack, we know nothin’ about it.”

“But—” Jack started, and his lower lip was starting to tremble.

“John,” Arthur said, low, and John knew a warning when he heard one. Just as well, since John was feeling the low anger again, and he was starting to lay it onto Jack.

Instead of continuing, John heaved a sigh, jerked his head to the side. “Go tack the horses, boy. Let me and Uncle Arthur talk.”

It was only once Jack was out of earshot, dog following at his heels, that Arthur straightened, folded his arms. And John was ready for the chastisement, to be told he was being too harsh, losing control of himself, but all Arthur did was look toward the pair and ask, “An’ is there a reason you ain’t wantin’ Jack to keep the dog?”

John blinked at Arthur. “What?”

“Boy’s eleven. Gettin’ old enough now to care for one. What’s the harm in lettin’ him keep it?”

John turned, catching Arthur’s eye. To his dismay, Arthur looked completely serious, and he couldn’t help the tone that crept into his voice when he said, “Arthur, we _have_ a dog.”

“No, _I_ have a dog. Boy should have one of his own.”

“Can’t we just…” John glanced at the lab, now prancing around Jack’s legs. “Can’t we just get one from the Harrisons or somethin’? Think one of their cattle dogs is gonna have a litter soon.”

Arthur gave him a look like _he_ was the goddamn crazy one. “We don’t need a cattle dog. Ain’t got cattle, John.”

“We don’t need a goddamn retriever either! How often do you bird hunt, huh?”

Arthur took a step closer, asked, “John, what’s wrong with this dog?”

“It’s another mouth to feed, Arthur, and nothin’ comin’ of it.”

“The thing comin’ of it is your son’s goddamn happiness. And where would we goddamn be without folks that brought in strays that need feedin’, huh?”

John just snorted. “You always were a goddamn bleedin’ heart, Morgan.”

“I ain’t the one wantin’ to take away the one thing that’s cheered Jack up since we got on this trip. You wanted a reason to get Jack to want to hunt? He’s gotta feed the dog, right? So what’s the harm in lettin’ him come along for a bit?”

And, as much as John hated to admit it, Arthur had a goddamn point. “ _Fine_.” By any luck, the dog would disappear again once they started moving.

* * *

The goddamn dog was following them.

Spent the whole ride trotting along at Baylock’s feet, in fact, at a length if it were any other horse, the dog would’ve been kicked. They’d given Baylock to Jack because the horse was something near ridiculously levelheaded, something left over from his time owned by a man as volatile as Micah was, and so made a good enough horse for Jack to ride when he was still learning.

Still, if Baylock chose this particular moment to break that streak of excellent behavior, John wouldn’t blame him. The dog was prone to yipping at Jack, dashing away into the woods and back, crossing in front of the horse’s path. Even put up with the dog stopping to growl loudly at what turned out to be a squirrel digging in a pile of leaves. The dog did scare the squirrel off, to be fair.

Jack, of course, was delighted by the dog, all smiles and actually engaged in the ride for once this trip, rather than going around with his nose buried in a book. Would laugh when the dog tripped over his own feet, or pounced on a set of leaves. Didn’t give his fathers a second glance.

Arthur was much the same, looking back at the pair every once and a while, a smile seeming a constant presence on his face. It was only a half hour or so into the ride when Arthur turned to John, said, “Y’know, he kinda reminds me of you. The dog, I mean.”

“How’s that, Arthur?” John could hear the resignation in his own voice, but it didn’t seem to stop Arthur.

“Well, y’know. Follows around anyone what feeds him, picks a fight with anythin’ what moves, dumb as a box o’ rocks—”

“ _Alright_ ,” John said, tapping Rachel with her heels to speed her up a little. “I consider this your goddamn fault, y’know.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Arthur said back, keeping pace exactly.

* * *

The day crumbled further.

They stopped, again, in a place far back from the road. They tracked, again, a herd of deer, through the woods until they came upon them. And John soon found that hunting with an excitable dog with no training was near impossible. The dog had no sense whatsoever, not gun sense and not hunting sense, and so any deer possible were driven off just as soon as they were found, lab sprinting off behind them.

John shouldn’t have been so quick to anger, but the look on Jack’s face, some barely hidden glee at not having to learn the thing they’d come out here to learn in the first place, it festered.

They trekked back to the camp after a day with no catches aside from one stringy rabbit Arthur had scared out of a den, and, when Jack sat by the fire for the first time this trip, dug in a paper bag for a bit of dried meat for the dog, John snapped, “Dog ain’t eatin’. Not until we catch somethin’ worth eatin’ ourselves.”

It was too harsh, maybe, but Jack didn’t cower. What had changed, John wasn’t sure, but the look on Jack’s face, chin stuck out, reminded John distinctly of Abigail when she had set her mind to something. “He’s hungry, Pa.”

But that didn’t mean John was giving it up. “Really? ‘cause as far as I can tell, only one what’s been eatin’ ‘round here’s been the dog.”

Jack snorted in response, and the anger crept up into John’s skin, because, honestly, what kind of reaction was that? It was a reasonable guess, all told, the dog being the one that got into their food the first night, and Jack was _laughing_.

And so John growled, “You got somethin’ to say, boy?”

Jack’s chin stuck out further. “Rufus weren’t the one what—”

“You _named_ it?” John interrupted, his voice getting harsher.

“I ain’t just gonna call him dog, Pa—”

“Jack, we can’t keep this thing. Y’can’t feed yourself as is, and you think you can take care of a damn dog?”

“It ain’t the same.”

“Ain’t it? Ain’t you the one who wants t’spend all his life buried in a book, no chores, no huntin’, no nothin’? How do you figure the dog is any different?”

“’cause you never _let_ me do anythin’ I wanna _do_. How come every time it’s somethin’ _I_ wanna do, it’s a problem?”

The rage was boiling now, and even Arthur’s firm, “ _John_ ,” behind him didn’t stop John from snapping, “’cause I’m your goddamn _father_ , boy, and you need to learn to hunt. And instead you’re sittin’ with this goddamn dog, tellin’ me that _it’s_ more important than learnin’ how to support your family.”

“I ain’t even wanted to _come_ on this stupid trip!”

“That ain’t the _point_ , Jack. How are you supposed to take care of a goddamn dog if you ain’t even able to feed your goddamn self?” And John swiped a hand over his mouth, made an executive decision. “We’re leavin’ the dog in town, and that’s final.”

Jack stood, the bag of dried meat falling and scattering on the ground, and without a word, walked away from the fire. “Jack, goddamnit—” John started, but it didn’t stop his son—without a word, he disappeared into his tent, the dog, oblivious, following.

And silence rocked the little clearing, the only thing John could hear the heart beating hard in his chest, until a sigh sounded from behind John.

And when John turned, he expected to see Arthur sympathetic, or angry, or even just pointedly ignoring the whole situation, something he was beyond familiar with. What he wasn’t expecting, of course, was the way Arthur’s lips were quirked in a fond little half smile. And he couldn’t help the words coming from his mouth when he snapped, “What’s so goddamn funny, Arthur?”

“He’s the same as you were, ‘round that age.”

Arthur said it simply, like it was the easiest answer in the world, and still John felt rocked. Because this wasn’t Arthur comparing John to the dog, an unconcealed joke. This was something genuine.

For all John had claimed when Jack was young that the boy wasn’t his, the years had changed things. His denial of it had always been more linked to not accepting his own responsibility than any true reason to doubt Abigail’s knowledge of her own body. But, that realization had only come with years of thought, of seeing the boy Jack was becoming.

Jack was his son, his flesh, his blood. Even if it weren’t his body that made Jack, John reckoned he’d think of his boy the same.

Still, he when he sighed, sat down next to Arthur, he couldn’t help himself asking, “How y’figure?”

“Y’know, ain’t never wanted to own up to nothin’. Didn’t want no one tellin’ you what to do, neither, not when you thought you knew better’n everyone else. Wanted to disagree with everythin’ and everyone.” And Arthur smiled, looked at John from the corner of his eye. “He don’t bite quite so much, though. “

John nudged his shoulder into Arthur’s. “Y’deserved it, bully.”

“Ain’t no one deserved the teeth of an undomesticated twelve-year-old in their arm, not even me at nineteen.” But then Arthur huffed a sigh, and his voice was more serious when he said, “Still shouldn’t yell at him. Ain’t worth that.”

John nodded, muttered, “I don’t—I don’t mean to. Just—just get caught in my own head.”

“I know,” Arthur said, and the gentleness in his voice acknowledged that John was trying. They’d gotten better at a lot of things, and effort and recognition of such was one of them. “We got a chance to be better men than the ones what raised us, John. You ain’t wantin’ Jack to make your mistakes, I get that, but you ain’t gonna get nowhere forcin’ that on him. Reckon he gotta come to that on his own.”

John sighed, scraped a heel in the dirt. “You think we should keep the dog.”

“I think we should keep the dog,” Arthur replied, not acknowledging how John had pointedly ignored how clearly Arthur’d seen through him, how much John wanted to avoid Jack becoming who he himself used to be.

“We’ll see,” John said, and leaned forward to throw another log on the dying fire.

* * *

In the morning, John tied Rufus to a tree outside their campsite. It was a compromise, of sorts, even if Jack seemed betrayed by the idea. The dog could stay, but he wouldn’t be allowed on the hunt. He had water, had been fed that morning despite John’s words the previous evening. He would, John assured Jack several times, be fine until they returned that afternoon.

Then, they hunted.

It took a while, this time, to ride out to a place where they found signs of deer. Whether that was their doing, the scent of the dog in the air, John wasn’t sure. But they found tracks, eventually, and Jack even tracked some on his own, John and Arthur both offering pointers in hushed voices if the boy seemed stuck.

And so they found deer, a small herd paused by a creek. The wind was in their favor, and so Arthur gestured them over to a good vantage point, kneeling in the mossy shade of the edge of the forest.

This time, John took his rifle in his own hands, lined up a shot. They’d given Jack his own rifle today, let the boy feel the weight of carrying his own gun. So John muttered, “Watch me, boy. Brace the gun, pull the trigger slow. Head or neck, and it won’t feel no pain.”

Jack swallowed once, but nodded, and John knew he would remember what John told him. Because that was the thing about Jack—when he listened, he _listened_. And so John shouldered his rifle, nodding when Arthur murmured, “Got the left one,” and set his sights on the rightmost doe.

The rifle cracked in his hands and the doe fell, quick and clean. One more bang not a half second behind the first, and the stag on the left fell as well. A pause, and then John gestured at Jack to follow him.

“C’mon, Jack. I’ll show you how to dress it,” he said to Jack, and then, to Arthur, “You wanna drag that stag over?”

Arthur gave him a nod, and John settled next to the doe, gesturing Jack in close. “Now listen, boy,” he said. “When we bring down a deer, we use as much as we damn well can, ‘cause we don’t do this for trophies. Parta the reason we’re doing this in the cold, ‘cause we need the meat t’last ‘til we can salt it.”

Jack was listening, for once. Looked a touch pale as John brought the knife to the doe’s stomach, started cutting, but listening. And maybe that meant John was doing something right for once, not managing to drive Jack away by taking it too far too fast.

Of course, it wasn’t to last.

“Now, I want you to hold this,” John continued, letting Jack take the cut edge of the pelt as he worked a knife under it. “You run a blade close to the skin. Pelt should come off easily enough. We’ll keep one or two of these to make things from, sell the rest in town for some extra. So Jack—Jack?” Jack’s hand had frozen where it gripped the pelt, and John paused, glanced up at his son.

“Pa?” Jack wasn’t looking at him, instead over his shoulder, and that was John’s first indication that something was wrong. That, and the fear trembling through the boy’s voice.

John turned around.

There were rules with bears. Every bear _could_ kill you, of course, but only some were _likely_ to. John had encountered plenty of black bears, for instance, and come out none the worse on the other side, seeing as only the mothers of cubs were any sort of dangerous if you were smart about it. Black bears would put on a show, sure, but it was all mock charges and loud noises.

Grizzlies, though. Grizzlies were mean beasts, apt to kill only for the slight of intruding on one’s territory. They were possessive over food, mating rights, and a whole host of other things, and saw humans as no more than competitors for their resources, if they even considered the human they were facing as anything more than an easy meal.

And it was a grizzly that had emerged from the woods on the other side of the creek, already huffing, making warning noises as it laid eyes on Arthur, John, Jack, and the two meals of dead deer they held between them.

Turns out, they’d been right, that first night. Bears in the area.

“Jack, get your rifle and get in the tree,” John muttered, stepping slowly between the beast and his son. And then, as the great bear lumbered up onto its back paws and roared, he snapped, loud, “Jack, _now_.”

The bear charged. Arthur, stupid goddamn man that he was, was in its path almost instantly. The man had dropped the deer he was dragging closer, a further example for Jack to practice dressing on, as soon as he had seen the bear, and his hands had gone to his rifle. No thoughts, John guessed, of running ever even running through Arthur’s head, because that was never the sort of man Arthur was, or ever could be.

No, Arthur was putting himself in front of John as John had put himself in front of Jack, because they were stupid creatures of habit. And Arthur managed only one shot with his rifle into the bear’s chest before the thing reached him, and then he went down, hard.

Everything went cold and red. John could see, almost in slow motion, the wood stock of Arthur’s rifle caught between the bear’s jaws, likely the only thing keeping Arthur alive. The great beast’s paws churning up the ground beside Arthur, inches and probably only seconds away from tearing into Arthur’s skin. And John swinging his own rifle up, pulling the trigger.

The bullet snapped across the beast’s nose. It wasn’t enough, John knew instantly, to stop the thing in its tracks entirely, but it gave Arthur a moment, something of a chance. The bear released the rifle, stumbled back a step, and Arthur kicked out, pushed himself with his legs out from under the body of the beast. And then, as Arthur was pulling in heaving breaths John could see even from this distance, the wind likely knocked out of him, the great bear swung its head, set its sights on John, the man who had hurt it.

They’d brought single shot rifles. It had seemed the right decision at the time, seeing as they weren’t planning anything more strenuous than taking down a few deer. Now, as John scrambled to reload, get another bullet in the chamber, he regretted it. It wasn’t like he feared death, not truly. He’d expected to die a long time ago, and as far as he was concerned, he’d managed the time he’d gained by nothing short of a miracle. If he went in the service of protecting his son and the man he loved, then maybe that wasn’t so bad. Still, he didn’t want Jack to witness this, if this were to be his end. No kid should need to see their father die, and especially not in so violent a way as a bear attack.

But it wasn’t John’s time to go, as it turned out. The blood pumping in John’s ears had stopped him from hearing the barking, the snarling, anything beyond the grizzly before him, but he sure did notice when a yellow blur threw itself in front of the bear.

Arthur had said the dog was stupid and picked a fight with anything that moved. Now, seeing the dog put himself between John and the bear, John would add brave to that list. Brave as all hell, Rufus was, and, in that way, the yellow lab fit into their family seamlessly, one more creature braver than was sensible.

But still stupid. The dog missed the first swipe of the bear’s claws, but he wasn’t so lucky the second time. Just as easy as batting a fly away, the bear darted one leg out and caught Rufus hard around the ribs. The force of the blow flung the dog off to the side where he didn’t get up again.

It was barely anything, in the bear’s eyes, a momentary distraction from his real target, John Marston. It was enough, though, for John to reload his rifle.

John had taken the chance the dog had given him, had jammed another bullet in the chamber and brought the rifle up just as the bear started, again, to charge. Took just a moment to line up his shot, sights right between the bear’s eyes.

He didn’t get a chance to pull the trigger.

Sure, there was a crack of rifle fire, and the legs went out from under the bear and the whole thing lurched, tumbled to the ground limp and lifeless. But it hadn’t been John’s shot.

“Jesus,” John muttered, and then, “Hell of a shot, son.” Because he’d seen the angle, had heard the report from rifle sound behind him, and knew the shot had been Jack’s from the perch in the tree he’d climbed up into. And so he turned, met his son’s pale face, rifle clutched in trembling hands.

“Pa?” Jack said in a small voice, and John lifted his arms, let Jack collapse from the tree branch into them. And he held tight to his son, felt him tremble against him, and, Christ, he never wanted to lose what he had here, never wanted a thing to ever happen to Jack.

It was a long moment before Jack released him, and John let him down to the ground. The boy’s eyes were wide on the bear, and it wasn’t a surprise to John when Jack asked, “Is it dead?”

A good question. It wasn’t moving, sure, but that didn’t mean nothing when it came to dangerous animals. John gripped his rifle, stepped towards it slowly. Raised it before he was in easy swiping range, and then kicked at the bear a couple times. The thing didn’t move.

“Definitely dead,” John said, not looking over at Jack, his eyes instead roaming over the bear.

It was a big son of a bitch. Likely male, just by size alone. They were in the time of year where bears were bulking up for winter, and the beast sure looked like it had been getting heavy. Scars ran across its body, history of a long life lived. Blood on the muzzle, and John wasn’t sure if that was from the dog or John’s own bullet after Arthur’d—

 _Arthur_.

Arthur who had tipped back flat on his back spread eagled now that the bear was dead, and John already felt a familiar shock of fear running sharp down his spine as he shot at Jack, “Hold on a minute, gotta check on Arthur.”

But the panic was gone just as quick as it started, as John got closer and his eyes swept over Arthur, found his chest still heaving as he caught his breath, saw his eyes blink back open, give John a relieved sort of grin.

“Jesus, Arthur, you scared the shit outta me,” John said, crossing the last of the space between them. Arthur’s rifle was by his side, but he wasn’t gripping it, which said well enough that he knew the danger was over.

“Christ, that sure was somethin’,” Arthur said, rolling his head over towards John. “Ain’t had that close a call since that hunt with Hosea.”

“You alright?” John couldn’t see any physical injury, but Arthur was one to brush off wounds to himself at the best of times.

“Fine, fine,” Arthur replied, which John was expecting, as he was expecting the wince as Arthur worked himself up into a sitting position, the way one hand went to cup his ribs.

“Nothin’ broken?”

Arthur rolled his shoulders, winced again. “Sure hope not. Gettin’ too old for broken ribs. S’the kid—?”

“ _Pa!_ ”

The panic in Jack’s voice got both John and Arthur to jerk their heads around, though it wasn’t, like he feared, the bear having revived itself. Instead, Jack knelt by a struggling yellow shape on the ground, and John felt his stomach drop. He’d forgotten about Rufus.

John was over in an instant, Arthur not far behind him. Jack’s eyes were welling up with tears, and John could see why instantly. The dog wasn’t in a particularly good way.

The bear’s claws had caught Rufus up the side, given him a set of gashes that ran from the middle of his ribcage up to his shoulder. Not deep, but wide, and the fur around it was already soaked a deep red. A rope still hung from Rufus’s neck, and John could see now that the dog had chewed himself free from the tree John had tied him to, the frayed end now lying limp in the sandy dirt of the creek bed. The dog must’ve followed them all that distance they rode out, just wanting that much to be with them.

And, still Rufus was struggling to get up, tail wagging when Jack laid his hand carefully on the lab’s blocky head. Not dead yet, not letting himself be beaten.

John wasn’t going to let this dog die. He could feel that in his bones.

It seemed Arthur had the same idea. He was there in a second, kneeling by the dog’s side. And even as John shrugged his jacket from his shoulders, pressed it against the bleeding wounds, Arthur was digging in his satchel, pulling out those self-same patch job supplies that he’d gotten in the habit of carrying back when Hosea had made them, so long ago.

“Jack, need you to boil some water,” Arthur said, and the boy scrambled to comply.

* * *

They wouldn’t win any awards for how neat the wound care was. Arthur’s stitches were nothing like the work Abigail might make, short and tidy, and John only did a passable job of shaving some of the dog’s fur away from the skin nearest the wounds with his knife. But, it was effective all the same. The hardest part seemed to be keeping Rufus still, seeing as he would try to get up every handful of seconds.

And the dog never growled, never showed his teeth at them. Whined a few times, but quieted when Jack scratched his fingers over his head.

Finally, after they’d wrapped the wounds with bandages to protect it and catch the last of the blood before it clotted, Arthur sat back on his heels, huffed a breath of air, said, “Reckon that’s as good as we’re gonna get it.”

It was quiet when Jack asked, still running a hand again over Rufus’s head and down along his back, over the bandages, “Is he gonna be okay?”

Arthur took a breath in, breath out. “Ain’t nothin’ certain, kid, but we done our best. All that’s left is t’hope it don’t get infected and he ain’t gonna rip the stitches. But he’s as good as we’re gonna make him, and that bear ain’t gonna hurt him no more.”

“I ain’t—” And then Jack, paused, looked to John. “Why’d he attack us, Pa? I ain’t wanted to kill him.”

John took a deep breath of air. He wasn’t good at talking to Jack, he knew that, but Arthur had always called him earnest, that he spoke best when it came from within. So, he started, “Listen, Jack. Ain’t a bad thing to not take pleasure in a thing dyin’. But that bear, it was gonna kill me, and your uncle Arthur, and it mighta done your dog in too if he ain’t stayed down. Sometimes—sometimes we gotta make hard choices to protect the ones we love. Hell, sometimes we just gotta learn things as boring, or make no goddamn sense, just to keep ‘em safe. You think I _like_ payin’ goddamn property taxes? But I do it, ‘cause that land is all we got, and I know we gotta keep it.

“So, so you ain’t gotta like that you killed that bear, ‘specially ‘cause he likely only came after us ‘cause we was on his territory, takin’ what he thought was his food. But you kept us safe, and that’s what matters. Now, c’mon. We got a long ride home, and we gotta figure out some way to get Rufus home without him rippin’ ‘em stitches.”

It took a moment for the realization to spark on Jack’s face, but when it hit, it hit hard, and John nearly toppled over with the force of it when Jack lunged forward to wrap his father in a hug.

And John gripped onto his son tight, thinking he might never let go.

* * *

John was fully expecting to take the brunt of any of Abigail’s potential ire at bringing home a dog, let alone the skin of a bear when the woman was so afraid of any harm befalling them. But, as it turned out, he shouldn’t have worried, as the first thing his wife said as Rufus limped right up to her feet, regardless of injury, and sat there panting with a dopey grin on his face was, “Y’know, John, he kinda reminds me of you.”

Arthur laughed, and John had to resist the ever-present urge to hit him. And resist he did, for his son’s sake, who was still beaming like all the sunshine in the world was present in that very moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all didn't think I would forget about Rufus in this AU, did you? The original idea of this fic was combining RDR2's mission where Rufus gets bit by a snake, and the RDR1 mission where Jack tries to hunt down a bear on his own and is attacked by it, all while exploring some themes from this AU series I wasn't able to fully expand on when Jack was younger. Hopefully it's successful! It goes without saying that Rufus recovers fine from his injuries, and Lace, Arthur's dog, is standoffish with him at first but he wins her over, so everyone settles in again as a happy ranch family. Anyway, if you enjoyed, let me know!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [werewolfsquadron](http://werewolfsquadron.tumblr.com). Title is from Devarrow's "[1984](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s-AnkUPDKCQ)".


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